Chapter 4 - Blood on the Boardwalk
The smell of cordite and burning pine needles drifted through the shattered window of the cabin before the glass had even finished hitting the floorboards.
"Down!" Silas yelled, shoving Nora behind the thick, stone hearth just as a volley of heavy-caliber rounds tore through the cedar siding. Splinters exploded inward like a cloud of wooden hornets.
The two mastiffs didn't panic; they dropped low, their muscles coiling like steel cables, low growls vibrating deep in their throats.
"How many?" Nora hissed, ducking her head as plaster rained down from the ceiling.
"At least four," Silas said, sliding along the floorboards toward the back window with the smooth, lethal grace of a younger man. Despite the hypothermia numbing his fingers just minutes ago, his grip on the Colt was steady as a rock. "They brought professional gear. Suppressed sub-machine guns. They didn't come to talk."
"Because of the ledger?"
"Because they think I'm a liability," Silas muttered, peering through a crack in the blinds. "My own harbor master, Declan Vance, has been selling our shipping lanes to the Boston syndicate behind my back. I found out yesterday. This morning was his counter-attack."
Nora’s mind raced. Declan Vance. He was the same man who came into the Harborlight Diner every Tuesday, tipped a single quarter, and stared at the harbor with dead, calculating eyes.
"If they kill us here," Nora said, her voice dropping an octave as cold anger replaced her fear, "nobody will ever look for us. The woods are too thick."
"Then we don't stay here," Silas replied. He glanced back at her, his dark eyes assessing her with a strange mixture of respect and calculation. "There’s a utility tunnel beneath the floorboards. It leads down to the old boat slip fifty yards into the trees. Take my truck keys. Start the Suburban."
"And you?"
"I’m going to make sure they don't follow us," Silas said, cocking the hammer of his pistol.
"No," Nora said, reaching into her apron pocket. She pulled out the small, dull paring knife she had used to cut him free from the ice. In the dim, smoke-filled cabin, the little blade looked absurd against the weapons of war. But her grip on it was unwavering. "You promised me answers about my father, Silas. And I don't leave debts unpaid in Ironwood Bay."
Silas stared at her for a fraction of a second—just long enough for a faint, dangerous glint to appear in his eyes.
"Alright, Nora Wick," he whispered. "Let’s go hunting."
With a sudden, explosive kick, Silas shattered the back door off its hinges, firing two rapid shots into the dark tree line. A man’s muffled cry echoed through the woods.
May you like
"Move!" Silas roared.
Nora didn't hesitate. She scrambled behind the massive brindle mastiff, diving through the open door and into the freezing mud, following Silas into the dark, tangled heart of the Maine wilderness as the gunfire erupted behind them.
